text by Claressinka Anderson
How to be of a structure –
to inhabit it in your bones,
to live with it in the murky
blackness of a concealed post and beam?
Hanging a cross around my neck,
I press my naked body against the X of a window frame,
place between my legs the harvested corn from your garden,
remember the women before me,
stoic on unstable ground.
Their eyes sliced open –
an eye for an eye –
for an egg.
Chain and hook my body,
tether it to the walls,
to the bed where I sleep and
dream of tiny hands,
of a body that doesn’t know birth,
of a mouth that eats pearls for breakfast –
tiny iridescent moons
that deliver calcium for a skeleton.
I lick the surface of a shell,
place my tongue at the edge of its
salt smooth pink
and listen for butterflies.
And in that shell I do not hear the sea,
but the quiet desert
full of sand and stars.
Tonight for dinner there is corn –
kernels of metallic memories,
they float into the wonder of a sky
where light itself is a wormhole
Delicious secrets in an
attic full of mercy,
a pull down staircase,
I place my foot on its tender rungs,
ascend each ligament one by one,
all the way up
to drink with the moon –
I am, I whisper,